#morning FROST 💜

[weirdglassthing]

Don’t give a mouse a cookie but it’s don’t give an artist a canon detail about a character anyways torbeks favorite movie!!

Sorry for inactivity but I’ve got some FIRE things coming up 🫡

[szaryherbatnik]

New echolalia/stim, i say morning FROST and do a heart with my hands

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 11: I Know This Hurts, It Was Meant To]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, sexual content (18+), lots and lots of death and destruction, literally nothing good happens in this chapter don't even read it, a Wolfman sighting, a wild Alys-Whent theory appears, more witchcraft! 🔮

Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Only 2 chapters left! 🥰💜

“Why isn’t Aemond back yet?”

You’re standing in the Dragonstone rookery with your arms crossed, brow furrowed, ravens pacing through straw and flapping their dark captive wings inside the cages. Through the window, you are watching the waves break against rocks where the Narrow Sea meets the shoreline. Outside it is overcast, misty, grey, cold. When you stepped into the gardens this morning—while Aegon was still sleeping, something he does with ever-increasing frequency, though you aren’t sure if it is more of a physical necessity or mental escape—frost crunched beneath your boots. Lord Larys Strong has shuffled into the room, his cane tapping on the stone floor; that is why you have spoken.

“Perhaps my sister was wrong about Daemon being at the Gods Eye,” he offers demurely. He is trying to be helpful; he is trying to comfort you. But you remember how vividly Alys showed you Everett being murdered by a mob in King’s Landing. You remember his screams, his flailing arms, men ripping the rings off his fingers and women stabbing the blades of their rusty kitchen knives into his eyes. Alys has never met Everett; she could not possibly have known what he looked like, what his voice sounded like, without gifts beyond what you once believed to be possible. Her sight is true and terrible.

“No,” you reply softly, still gazing at the iron-grey ocean. Any minute I’ll hear Vhagar flying over again. I’ll see her vast, reptilian shadow and know that Aemond has won and the war is all but over.

“Perhaps Aemond felt compelled to go south immediately after defeating Daemon and Caraxes. Perhaps he’s with Prince Daeron now, and they’re burning Northmen in the Reach. Perhaps he wants to return with Cregan Stark’s severed head.”

There’s no logical reason why this can’t be the case; but in place of relief, what you feel instead is a heaviness like stones being piled up, like ships filling with seawater. You turn to Larys. “If the king asks about Aemond, I want you to reassure him the same way you’re speaking to me right now.”

He bows his head. “Of course.”

“But I want you to do it more convincingly.”

Larys startles a bit, then regains his composure. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Is Aegon awake yet?”

“He was just getting out of bed when I checked on him.”

And that’s what you’re always doing now, you and Larys and the maesters and the guards: always looking in on Aegon, always making sure he’s not in too much pain, reminding him to eat, distracting him, soothing him, lifting his spirits. “Good. Have the cooks make something that will give him strength.”

“Not crab?”

“No. Something heavier. Beef, venison.” You recall the feast in King’s Landing to celebrate Rhaenyra’s taking of the city, slabs of rare meat glistening with blooddrops like rubies. Red like war, red like the banner of the house you were born to. “Boar, if the kitchens have any.”

In his bedchamber, the king is gazing out of his own window, but slumped in a velvet-cushioned chair instead of standing. He’s sipping a cup of red wine languidly, glazed eyes and slow blinks. There’s a dagger on the table beside him, the one he uses to cut his hair when it starts to grow too long. There are locks of white-blond hair scattered around him on the floor like a thin dusting of snow. Outside, grey clouds churn and waves shatter when they meet jagged boulders and cliffsides, the earth’s own bones.

Aegon glances over at you and says thoughtfully: “Where’s Aemond?”

“He’ll be back soon. I know he will.” He has to be. We can’t win without him. You go to Aegon and kneel down on the floor beside his chair. You lay a palm on his thigh, light as a feather, like you’re just a ghost or a memory. He places a hand over yours. Seconds tick by, late-autumn wind rattles the glass of the window.

“Aemond used to talk about us not being real Targaryens,” Aegon tells you. His voice is faint and dreamy. His eyes are still cast outside—miles away, years away—where he is willing Vhagar’s monstrous shadow to appear. “When we were very young. The Hightowers don’t have any Valyrian blood, they’ve been here in Westeros forever, since men lived in caves and worshiped…” He gestures flippantly with his wine cup, rolls his eyes. “I don’t know, I don’t care, sticks or rocks or whatever. That bothered Aemond. He felt that made us less than Rhaenyra and Daemon. Our father rejected us, he ignored us, he broke every precedent to keep us from the throne. Being a Targaryen…it didn’t matter to me.” He smirks wryly and looks down at the flurry of silver hair around his chair. “I didn’t want it anyway. Sunfyre was the only part of my inheritance I didn’t think was a curse. But Aemond needed that legacy. He always wanted to be a hero. He was willing to put in the work, he had the discipline, he had the skill. It meant so much to him, and I…” Aegon shakes his head, his voice breaking. “I shouldn’t have said those things before he left.”

“He didn’t think you meant it. He knew you were speaking out of pain and frustration.”

“I have to be able to apologize to him.”

“You’ll get the chance. He’ll be back soon.”

And Aegon’s eyes—huge and shimmering and a tumultuous blue like the ocean—drift to yours. The words are there, though you don’t hear them aloud: Will he really?

You have to divert him. You have to make him smile. “And don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll bring your favorite swamp witch with him.”

Aegon laughs; crinkles spring up around his eyes, pink rushes into his pale cheeks. “Oh, seven hells. He better not expect us to host her here while he flies south to roast the Stark men.”

“You don’t enjoy her company?” you tease.

“I’d throw crab shells at her. I’d make her sleep in a tree.” He sighs. “Borros Baratheon is going to be furious.”

“I suppose we don’t always get much of a choice in who we fall in love with.”

“No,” Aegon agrees. “We certainly don’t.” He sets his wine cup on the table, leans down to cradle your face with both hands, draws you in close to him and kisses you, deep and tender and slow. He tastes like wine, and weakness, and heat that he is fighting desperately to keep kindling. Everything he does now is full of effort, even just speaking, even just love. He moves like his arms weigh a thousand pounds, like his jaw is iron and his spine is lead. But he lifts it all for you, for you.

Your palm skates to the apex of his thighs. He is hard, he is hungry for you; but he breaks the kiss and covers his face with both hands, moaning. “Aegon?” You thread your fingers through his choppy hair, tuck his braid behind his ear, bring your lips to his forehead. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He chokes out: “I’m so fucking pathetic.”

“You’re not.”

“I am. I’m just this scarred, crippled, useless man. And everyone I touch is ruined by me. I can’t let anything bad happen to you. I don’t understand how you could still want me.”

“I do want you,” you swear, taking his hands from his face: the tears glistening there, the rough red burn on his right cheek. “You and no one else.”

Aegon stares at you with his wet, wounded eyes. “You can’t just give in because you think it’s something you owe me. We can’t allow this to become something that’s poisoned.”

Poison. You think of the tea you brewed Baela, of the milk of the poppy in the glass bottle on Aegon’s bedside table across the room. You think of the night you surrendered to Aemond for nothing, no gain, no strategy, no heir, just treason that grows heavy and unmistakable within you like a child would. “It’s not poison with you, Aegon. It’s the only time I feel pure.”

Aegon staggers to his feet and kisses you again as the wind howls outside. His tongue darts between your lips; his arms circle around your waist to help him keep his balance. He follows you to the bed, a moon chasing its planet, and helps you shed your gown of emerald green velvet, just one of your many skins. He’s lying beside you, he’s touching you everywhere, he’s nipping ravenously at your throat, your breasts, down to your belly, your hips. He’s parting your thighs like pages in a book. He’s dragging his tongue through your drenched folds. And then it flashes in your skull like lightning: memories of Aemond, of betrayal, shame and nausea and scalding blood rushing into your face.

“Come back,” you murmur, and Aegon obeys. But then he does something strange. He heaves himself up with great effort, repositions himself behind you, kisses the bumps of vertebrae down the back of your neck as the scars that riddle his chest scratch against your shoulder blades. When you try to roll towards him again, Aegon stops you.

“No,” he pleads in a whisper, hushed and desperate through your hair. “Don’t turn around. Don’t look at me.”

And before you can protest, his fingertips have skimmed over your hip to stroke you where you are warm and slick and aching, and you are gasping helplessly, begging for more, and his cock slips into you with slow, powerful thrusts that he battles not to break the rhythm of until you’ve come. But in the midst of the pleasure, you are aware that just like the moon in its withering phases, Aegon is somehow less, and so are you, and so is everyone, and so is the world itself.

When it’s over, Aegon doesn’t hold you like he usually does. He doesn’t sink into sleep like deep water. He rolls over, fumbles for his bedside table, pours himself a cup of milk of the poppy with shaking hands.

~~~~~~~~~~

You sit on the bottom steps of the stone staircase, your bare feet in cool wet sand. Your gown is scarlet velvet, a bear fur cloak clutched around your shoulders. You are reading a book from the castle library about the medicinal uses of berries. Across the beach, Aegon is trying to coax Sunfyre into eating a goat that the guards have brought for him. The dragon is sluggish and flightless, and his own blood stains his muzzle; but he peers at Aegon with pained golden eyes like he wants so desperately to please him. And for the first time, you are at last able to see dragons as something more than animate destruction. You see intelligence in them; you see what might even be love.

There are distinct footsteps approaching as Larys descends the staircase, his cane tapping ever-closer. News of Aemond? News of his victory? You twist around to greet the Master of Whisperers. “Do you bring something to lift our spirts, Lord Larys…?”

But no; his face is grim, and he’s holding a bundle of fabric under one arm. He lowers himself down onto the step where you are perched, sets his cane aside, and grasps the bundle with both hands. He stalls for a moment before he speaks. He is in shock, he is terrified. “I’m afraid, Your Grace, that I must inflict great heartache upon the king.” His eyes flick to you. “Perhaps you could help me. I don’t even know how to begin.”

Your veins feel icy; your pulse is thundering in your ears. Aemond? Vhagar? “What’s happened? Is it…about the Gods Eye…?”

“No.” Larys gives you the fabric, folded into a neat square. You pull it apart to examine it.

“What is this…?” But then you know. It is a cape. It is not a regal emerald color, nor a deep envious viridescence; it is a vibrant seafoam green, bright and bold and showy. The clasp is still attached, a gold that glints like the dragon ring on Aegon’s left hand. And the cape is riddled with dark maroon smudges and places where the fabric was singed away, leaving only a gash like the puncture mark of a fang. It smells like smoke and the coppery sickness of blood. Soot rubs off on your palms. “Daeron,” you breathe.

Larys nods gravely. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“How? How did you get this?”

“I have informants in the Reach. After the battle, one ensured that this made its way to me. It should be preserved. It should be given to his mother when we are reunited with her, I believe. Perhaps it will bring her some small consolation. It is the only relic of him she will have to bury.”

“Daeron,” you say again, and you can see him like he’s standing in front of you: daring, arrogant, brave, capable far beyond his years, cunning blue eyes, a shock of silver hair that he was so proud of. Alicent has lost two children. Can she survive this? Will she want to? “I don’t understand, what battle…?”

“Cregan Stark and his men met the Hightower army at Tumbleton,” Larys explains. “Addam Velaryon returned on Seasmoke to join the Blacks and prove his enduring loyalty to Rhaenyra. Perhaps the bastard was genuine, perhaps he only wanted to convince Rhaenyra to free poor Corlys from the Red Keep’s dungeons. It doesn’t matter which now. The boy is dead.”

“Dead,” you repeat. Addam Velaryon may have been a boy, but he fought for Rhaenyra. He fought for Cregan Stark. And you say before you can stop yourself: “Good.”

“Daeron on Tessarion, Hugh Hammer on Vermithor, and the Velaryon bastard on Seasmoke tangled in the sky above the battle. Vermithor was killed by a scorpion bolt fired by the Northmen. Seasmoke was killed by Tessarion. Daeron fell from his dragon in the midst of the clash. Once the Blacks emerged victorious, Tessarion was found alive but mortally injured, and she was shot to death by Stark’s archers.”

“And Cregan Stark, he’s…he survived?”

“Yes. He is unharmed. But the Hightower army was devastated.”

“What about the other Betrayer? Ulf the White? Could he and Silverwing—?”

“Ulf slept through the battle. Drunk to the point of unconsciousness, I’ve heard. He was slain afterwards. The riderless Silverwing has vanished.”

No Tessarion. No Vermithor or Silverwing. Sunfyre is dying. The only Green dragon left is Vhagar. You can’t believe it. You won’t believe it. “But…but Aemond was supposed to fly south after the Gods Eye, he and Daeron were supposed to fight together, and if Vhagar was there this never would have happened—”

“No, it wouldn’t have,” Larys concurs somberly. “But evidently, Aemond has not yet left the Riverlands.”

You study the cape, this ash-and-blood tapestry of the youngest Targaryen brother’s demise, the fifteen-year-old boy who was so much like Aegon. Where is Aemond? Still waiting for Daemon and Caraxes? Holed up inside the crumbling towers of Harrenhal with Alys? Where the hell is he? We need him. We need him. We can’t win without him.

“Your Grace,” Larys says gingerly, like trying not to creak floorboards. “I think it’s time for you to consider what your options are if a Green victory no longer appears to be viable.”

If the Greens lose, Aegon will be executed. You shake your head. “No.”

“I don’t say this to cause you distress. I do it to save your life if that time ever comes. The king would want you to survive, and so would Alicent.”

You hug the mangled cape to your chest, your throat full of embers and your eyes blurring with tears. “There’s nowhere else for me to go.”

“To Claw Isle?” Larys suggests. “The Blacks believe you to be innocent. Your family would take you back.”

“Clement is the head of my house now. He idolizes Cregan Stark, I think he loves him more than he ever loved me. If Cregan is still alive when the war is over, Clement will give me to him. How can I marry a man who fought against Aegon’s cause? Who murdered Greens?” Who is, at least in part, responsible for his death?

Larys scrambles for another solution. “I could try to send you somewhere far away. Dorne, Essos.”

“And then what?” you demand; and Larys cannot answer. You do it for him. “I’d be a woman alone in the world. I would be vulnerable and friendless. I have no idea how to fend for myself. Autumn knew it.” And you remember what she told you before she accompanied you to Dragonstone, a journey that feels like a lifetime ago: I mean no offense, my lady, but you know nothing of the world beyond your castles and gardens and books full of naked men drawings. You would not last a day on your own.

“You read, you write, you study medicine,” Larys says, rather frantic now. “Perhaps I could arrange to have you taken to the Citadel and you could train under the maesters there…I could try to contact some who are sympathetic to the Greens, and if they agree you should depart immediately—”

“I won’t leave Aegon.”

“Your Grace, if the Greens lose this war…I fear the king will not survive. He is already weak. He is already ailing. There is very little you can do for him now.”

“I won’t leave him,” you hiss fiercely. “As long as he breathes, I belong where he is.” He’s risked his life to save mine. He’s taught me the joy that can be found in marriage. I will never stop repaying that debt.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Larys concedes. Then you refold the cape and walk barefoot across the beach to meet Aegon.

Sunfyre has at last appeased the king by setting the goat ablaze with a sickly gasp of flames. Now he is gnawing listlessly at the corpse. His golden eyes catch on you and track your steps as you approach, dully curiosity but with no malice. Aegon takes his leave of the dragon with a gentle pat of his angular face, struggles to his feet, and joins you under the bleak grey sky. Once he could not step into the sunlight without it burning him; now the sun rarely shines at all. He knows there’s something wrong. He can read it on you like clandestine letters.

“Angel?” Then he sees the cape that you’re holding. “What is that, a banner? A blanket? My bitch half-sister’s funeral shroud, I hope.”

You give it to him. Aegon shakes the cape open, surveys it, then gasps, a sharp inhale like the whistle of a blade through the air. His knees buckle; the fabric flutters to the wet sand. You drop down beside Aegon and embrace him, shelter him, shield him. He grabs at you desperately, like a drowning man clawing for scraps of buoyant wreckage in the waves.

“It was quick,” you murmur as you hold him. “He fell from Tessarion. He didn’t suffer.” You don’t know that, you have no idea what Daeron’s final moments were like. “The battle happened at Tumbleton. The Northmen are in the Reach.”

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Aegon rasps. “I don’t want to be the king. I never wanted it. I want to go back to before everything happened. I want to give Rhaenyra the throne. She can have it, I don’t want it, I don’t want it. Can we go back to when my father died? I’ll let Rhaenyra have the Seven Kingdoms. I don’t care what Otto and Mother and Criston say. They wouldn’t fight for it either if they knew what would happen. All of us are dead or broken. It’s not worth it. Nothing could be worth it. I don’t want to be the king. I don’t need the Iron Throne. I need everyone I’ve lost back. And I need you.”

“I’m so sorry, Aegon.” Your fingers are snared in his windswept silver hair; your heartbeat is thudding against his. There’s salt on your cheeks: his tears, your tears, the spray of the ocean. “It’s not your fault. Rhaenyra had the chance to end the war. She was offered terms and she refused them over and over again. Daeron’s blood is on her hands. She will pay the debt.”

And a tiny voice inside you says: Hasn’t she already lost four children? Hasn’t she paid enough?

The answer is dark and resounding. No. Nothing will ever be enough. But her life is a start.

“Where was Aemond?” Aegon sobs. “Where the fuck was he? Daeron wasn’t supposed to face the Northmen without him. He was a kid…just a goddamn kid…”

“I don’t know.”

“Are Daemon and Caraxes still alive? Is Aemond at Harrenhal?”

“I don’t know, Aegon. We haven’t heard anything.”

“I should have been there.”

“You would have been if it was possible. But you’re not able to fight. Sunfyre isn’t either.”

“I’m useless,” he weeps bitterly. “I can’t win the war. I can’t save anyone.”

And you brush his hair back from his face and feel his forehead for fever as you say: “You saved me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“What’s she like?” Lord Bolton asks as he and Cregan Stark warm their large, weathered hands by the fire, their breath foggy in the wind and the stars glimmering in a cold cloudless sky.

The Northmen are still clearing dead and wounded from the battlefield at Tumbleton. Split bones must be forced back into place, infected limbs amputated, gouges scrubbed and stitched, burns treated, corpses buried, soldiers who cannot continue evacuated back to Winterfell via the Kingsroad. All of this must be attended to; Cregan Stark is a man of honor, and honor demands that he care for those who have pledged their lives to him. When the task is done, the Northmen will begin their assault on King’s Landing. The riots must be put down, the rightful queen must be protected, the succession must be secured. And Cregan must find and claim the woman he has been promised and yet denied by the wickedness of the grotesque, amoral, soulless Usurper.

“She’s beautiful, of course,” Cregan says. He speaks in subterranean rumbles, dark and rolling like thunder, booms and quakes, always a little louder than he means to be. He takes up space; he bends the light and gulps down the air. He smiles wistfully, remembering. “But that’s not the important thing. She’s clever, she’s tough. She’s not afraid of gore. I’ve seen her help set a compound fracture that pierced straight through the skin. She had blood all over her hands.” He grins and holds up his own, stained with earth and ash and half-dried maroon that looks as black as ink in the firelight. “We are made for each other.”

Lord Bolton whistles admiringly, his breath like mist. “She is a rarity.”

“Like treasure, like gemstones.” Cregan lays his blade across his knees, a longsword taller than some men and with a hilt carved in the shape of a wolf’s head. He cleans it, he tends to it, it is a part of him as immutable as his spine or his heart. “But she is not prideful. She behaves like a true noblewoman. She is quiet and modest. She defers to her father, to her brother, to me. She obeys.”

“That is essential,” Lord Bolton notes. “Nothing breeds discontentment like a willful wife.”

“She will give me sons with Valyrian blood. She is fertile, surely. Her mother bore six children.” Cregan polishes his blade, his unruly dark hair blowing in the night wind. Now he is pensive. “Her maidenhood was entrusted to me. It was a great honor, a great responsibility. It was something only I ever should have had. It is not her error, but she is less now.”

“You are a good man to still take her, the way she is now. The very best of men.”

“I cannot seem to forget her,” Cregan muses, quiet in a way that is rare for him. “I dream of when I first met her at Winterfell, snow in her hair and pages of books rustling beneath her fingers.”

“What will you do when you capture the Usurper?” Lord Bolton asks; this is the part that most interests him. “Burn him? Gut him? My men have brought their flaying knifes with them from the Dreadfort. They are eager to use them.”

“No,” Cregan says firmly. “No flaying. It is against the laws of war.”

“What use are laws to animals like Alicent Hightower’s children?”

“They preserve us. They safeguard our own humanity, our own honor.” Cregan holds his longsword aloft and scrutinizes it, gazing at his own reflection in the glinting blade. “The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”

“So you will do it yourself,” Lord Bolton says with grudging awe. His own flaying knives are suddenly very heavy in his pockets; his fingers itch to use them.

Cregan Stark—the Warden of the North, the new Kingmaker—nods under the starlight. “Yes. I will end the Usurper. It can’t be anyone but me.” He sheaths his longsword, gliding it into its leather scabbard, thinking of his long-awaited wedding night with the woman whose purity was stolen from him like pieces of gold thieved from a vault. “And I will enjoy it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In bed, surrounded by candles that flicker when cold drafts blow in through the crevices of the castle, you read to Aegon from a book cataloging all the bones of the human body. He doesn’t care about the content, you know that; he just likes to hear your voice. As you read, Aegon—his arms linked around your waist, his chin resting in the dip of your clavicle—interjects with drowsy commentary. “I’ve broken that bone,” he says. “Oh yeah. That one too.” “Grandsire almost cracked my radius in half when I was ten and I replaced his beard cream with cake frosting. He put it on just before going to sleep and woke up assailed by stray cats.”

You chuckle, a lightness that lasts mere seconds. Now Lord Larys Strong has appeared in the doorway, the orange-gold glow like dusk on his face. He rests both hands on the handle of his cane like he often does, but his expression is one you have never seen before. He is not just mournful. He is paralyzed, he is shattered. His eyes are wide, bloodshot, blank. He swallows noisily. He opens his mouth, but no words escape. He closes it again.

“Don’t tell me that,” Aegon says, deathly quiet, winter still. He pulls away from you. You shut the book and place it on the bedside table beside his glass bottle of pearlescent milk of the poppy. Then you watch Larys.

The Master of Whisperers takes a deep, tremulous breath. “I have received word that both dragons disappeared into the skies above the Gods Eye, and then—”

“No,” Aegon whispers. “No, he’s coming back.”

“Your Grace…”

“No, he’s coming back!” the king roars. “He has to, he has to, you know we can’t win without him!”

Aemond? you think, terror-stricken.

“I have three separate reports. They all agree. Caraxes and Vhagar destroyed each other. They plummeted into the lake and sank, along with their riders.”

“No—”

“Both of their riders,” Larys says.

Aemond??

“The reports are wrong,” Aegon counters. “They have to be.”

You can picture Aemond: smirking, teasing, bitter, brilliant, thoughtful, visionary, blind. How can he be at the bottom of the Gods Eye, eternally chained to Vhagar’s saddle, fish nibbling at his fingers and lips and the gristle between his ribs? “Aegon,” you begin, reaching for his hands; but he flinches away from you.

“No, no, he’s coming back!”

Larys says gently: “Your Grace, I am so profoundly sorry for your loss.” But of course, it is every Green’s loss. Who is left to stand between them and Cregan Stark’s army of archers, cavalry, Boltons with their flaying knives? The Baratheon men? And does anyone truly believe they can defeat the Northmen, assuming they arrive to wage war at all?

“He’s coming back.” Aegon is hysterical. His murky blue eyes stream like riptides. “He has to. We need him, Larys, you know how much we need him. It’s a mistake. Aemond is okay, he’s coming back, he’s coming back, we can’t win without him!”

You try to take his hands again. “Aegon, it’s not over yet, we’ll—”

“Don’t touch me!” he cries, breaking down in breathless sobs. Then he covers his face, ashamed, broken. “Everyone I touch dies. I’m a curse, I’m a monster. I ruin people.”

Larys rushes to comfort the king. You retreat from the bed, watching Aegon as he howls and moans, feeling that although there is one of Alicent’s children left alive, all of them have already been taken from you.

The witch, you think, poisonous, venomous, bloodthirsty. She led Aemond to the Gods Eye, and now he’s gone. He’s dead, he’s nowhere, he’s doomed us all.

What had Alys said before she returned with Aemond to Harrenhal? I can appear and speak to you briefly, perhaps for five or ten minutes. I will be like a mirage, a ghost. Find a closed door and write my name upon it in blood. Then knock three times and open the door. I will be there.

You dart to the table beside Aegon’s favorite chair, cushioned with deep red velvet, and snatch the dagger he uses to cut his hair. Clutching the hilt of the weapon, tears searing in your eyes, you bolt from the room and out into hallway. Dragons of stone and steel, fire crackling in their gaping jaws, watch as you flee past them towards the bedchamber Aemond always used when he visited the castle. You can’t fathom that you will never see him again. He was a weed that grew into you and put down roots, he became a part of your landscape. He was dandelions, he was clovers, he was ivy, and now he is earth scorched to ash.

I’ll never speak to him again. I’ll never see him again. How is that possible?

Blood. You need blood. Would there be any in the kitchens? Should you have a goat or a boar butchered?

No, no. Your mind is a maelstrom of storms and rage, fire and blood. I can’t wait.

You go to the closed door of the room that was once claimed by Aemond. He never owned anything; he only took things and penned his name to them in void-black ink. You take the blade of the dagger and rip it down the length of your left palm. Then you write on the wood of the door two words in a rust-colored scrawl, one on top of the other: Alys Rivers.

You ball up your bloodied fist and knock on the door three times. Then you throw it open. And in a black mist, there she stands: onyx gown, obsidian hair, black moonstone eyes, tears of blood that fall in a torrent down her alabaster cheeks. She is grief-stricken. But you have no compassion left for her; your mercy was once an ocean and has now receded to a creek, a puddle, sparse raindrops that people pray for during droughts.

“You told Aemond that Daemon and Caraxes would be waiting for him at the Gods Eye. You encouraged him to go.”

Alys shakes her head, an inhumanly slow motion. Her voice is deep and echoing, like a shout through a long tunnel. “I didn’t know this would happen.”

“You see things, don’t you?!”

“Not everything,” Alys sobs. “I saw him take flight. I didn’t see the rest of it. I didn’t know. I never would have let him go if I’d known.”

“And you killed him. You murdered him, you ruined him, you might as well have driven a blade into his heart.”

“Aemond went of his own volition,” Alys says. “I told him the truth of what I saw. He was certain that Caraxes could not meet Vhagar in battle and emerge unbroken. And he was right. Caraxes did not survive. But neither did Vhagar.” Her blood-streaked face crumbles again. “He was stabbed through the eye. His beautiful sapphire eye…”

“You’ve doomed us. Vhagar was our last adult dragon, Aemond was our best warrior after Criston died. You’re a murderer. You’ve killed us.”

Her glare turns hateful. “You are not such a stranger to killing.”

“Careful, witch,” you warn. “Or when Aegon sits the Iron Throne, we will send men to the rubble of Harrenhal to burn you alive.”

“No. My son and I will live. And I’ve seen your children, too,” Alys says, and for all the times she did not intend to be cruel, now she is grinning with savage madness.

Panic rises in you; you try to conceal it. “I don’t believe I’ll ever have children.”

“Oh, you will,” Alys insists gleefully. “You will. I’ve seen it. Snow in your hair, furs around your shoulders, children who are dark and rugged, wolf pups with dirt and ash on their faces.”

The North. The Starks. “No,” you say, horrified. I can’t marry Cregan Stark. If I’m given to him, that means Aegon is dead. “No, no, you’re lying. You’re lying!”

“You are not a woman who motherhood will come easily to. It will take time to conceive, but you will give the Warden of the North heirs. He will enjoy putting them in you. He will have to try often.”

Your voice is hoarse and helpless. “You’re just trying to hurt me, it’s not real—”

“Wolf pups,” she says again, insistent. “After Aemond died, I saw them all in a row. And my son,” Alys continues dreamily, tracing her belly with one palm, not showing yet but full of potential like blue-white lightning flashing from inside a storm cloud. “My son will be a knight of House Whent.”

“There is no House Whent, you lunatic.”

“No.” Alys smiles, leers, gloats. “But there will be. I will be driven from Harrenhal, but they will reclaim it. And a Whent will marry into Tully, and a Tully will marry into Stark, and your blood will mix with Aemond’s after all. Isn’t there a certain poetry in that?”

Your hands have flown up to cover your ears. Aegon can’t die. I won’t survive it. “No, no, no!”

“The blood of wolves will always sing to dragons. And that is because of you, I think. The mind forgets, if it ever knew at all…but the bones remember. Pieces of you threaded into the marrow. Murmurs of your voice in their dreams. Do not attempt to resist it. This is your fate, and it could be far worse. The wheel goes around and around, and we all take our turn being crushed. Be grateful you’ll still be alive. Be thankful you had the time you did with your broken king.”

“No!” You slam the door shut. The blood on your palm is drying; the slit you cut there burns.

She’s lying. She’s mistaken. She’s a witch and a madwoman and I don’t believe a word she says.

And before you can dwell on how little comfort this brings you, you hurry to return to Aegon’s bedchamber.

“Borros Baratheon will expect you to take his daughter as your wife,” Larys is telling Aegon. “He was promised a royal marriage. With Aemond and Daeron both gone, you are the only suitable Targaryen left.”

“I won’t do it,” Aegon says quietly. He looks bloodless and haunted; he looks half-dead.

“Your Grace…please…failure to appease him might inspire Borros to withhold his military support from us. His army is the only substantial force the Greens still possess. It is not a personal decision. It is a strategic one. And without having an heir with the queen, her political utility is minimal…”

“No,” Aegon snaps. “I will not be parted from her. Do not ask me again.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Larys yields, bowing deeply. You know he does not act out of ill-will towards you. He is an advisor, and he is trying to advise. You are not the logical choice. And if Aegon loses, you will reap no rewards because he chose to call you his queen. The world will end for you as well.

“What is that?” you ask, and they both jolt to see you in the doorway; but you aren’t looking at Aegon or Larys. You are peering out the nearest window at pinpricks of firelight that dance over the waves. Larys shuffles to the window, his cane rapping against the floor. With agonizing effort—though he refuses your help—Aegon crawls out of bed and stumbles across the bedchamber to join you and Larys.

“It’s her,” Aegon says; and you can hear the vicious satisfaction in his voice like glistening strands of saliva dripping from the jaws of a ravenous animal, a wolf or a bear or a dragon. The fire is from the glass lanterns they carry. There are no signs of Syrax or Sheepstealer, not even little Tyraxes, no squeals or shrieks or shadows that pass over the moonlight.

Stepping off a tiny boat moored at the end of the pier—attended by only a handful of servants and tugging her white-haired son along behind her—is Rhaenyra Targaryen.

[planet-marz1]

Birthday Girl

Summary: Joel wakes you up with a sweet surprise on your birthday Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader Word Count: ~500

Tags/Warnings: no use of y/n, lots of fluff, Joel just being super sweet

A/N: This is dedicated to my favorite person ever, the loml @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin make sure to go wish her a happy birthday for me! 💜

| main masterlist | notifs blog |

The soft morning sunlight streams through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the room. The scent of fresh coffee lingers in the air. As you stir from your peaceful slumber, you feel a pair of strong yet gentle arms wrap around you, pulling you close.

A contented sigh escapes your lips as you snuggle into the warmth of Joel's embrace. His chest rose and fell with each steady breath, creating a comforting rhythm that lulled you into a sense of tranquility.

Joel's lips brush against the nape of your neck, sending a shiver of delight down your spine. 

“Good morning, birthday girl,” he whispers.

You can't help but smile, your eyes still closed, savoring the intimacy of the moment. 

“Mmm, good morning, my love,” you reply, your voice barely more than a sleepy murmur.

Joel's fingers trace delicate patterns on your arm, creating a soothing sensation that makes your heart flutter. “Guess what day it is?” he teases, his breath tickling your ear.

You let out a soft giggle, feigning ignorance. “Hmm, I wonder. Is it just an ordinary Sunday?”

He chuckles, his warm laughter resonating through your body. "Not just any Sunday, darling.”

With that, Joel gently turns you around to face him, his eyes sparkling with affection. His lips meet yours in a tender kiss, and you can feel the love he poured into that simple gesture. As he pulled away, a mischievous grin played on his lips.

“Now, it's time for your birthday surprises,” he declares, reaching for a tray that holds a steaming cup of coffee and a plate of breakfast treats, and a single cupcake adorned with a flickering candle.

“All of this, just for me?” you ask.

You couldn’t believe someone would do something so simple, yet so meaningful, just for you.

“Make a wish, sweetheart,” Joel encourages softly.

You close your eyes, a smile playing on your lips, as you make a silent wish. The same one you make every year, though your life right now seems pretty perfect. You already have all you could ever want, and more. With a gentle exhale, you open your eyes, and Joel leans in to help you blow out the candle.

You both share a celebratory bite, and you savor the sweetness as you look into Joel's eyes. Leaning in, you capture Joel's lips in a sweet and lingering kiss. As you pull away, a giggle bubbles between you, and you can't help but notice the frosting on Joel's beard.

“Looks like we got a little carried away,” you tease, a playful grin on your face.

With a gentle swipe of your finger, you wipe away the frosting from his beard, both of you sharing a laugh. As you lean back, Joel looks at you with a twinkle in his eye, his gaze filled with adoration.

“You're always full of surprises,” he says, leaning in for another kiss, this one filled with a gentle tenderness.

“I love you so much, Joel,” you whisper, your eyes shining with gratitude and affection. “This surprise, these moments – they mean the world to me. Thank you for making my birthday so incredibly special.”

Joel's smile deepened, and he wrapped you in another loving embrace. "Anything for you, my love. Here's to many more birthdays spent together.”

tag list: @pertinentpostmortem @party-hearses @mandoisapunk @bastardmandenni @chaotic-mystery @beskarandblasters @amanitacowboy @littlegrungegirlaf @pedrodascal @sweetercalypso @ilovepedro @cool-iguana @alwaysmicado @lovers-liability @futuraa-free @morgaussy @pedritoferg @spookykoolkat @wethairjoel @chronically-ghosted @buckyispunk @pattwtf @morning-star-joy @elvinaa @tinycozycomfort @magpiepills @pr0ximamidnight @joelscurls @janaispunk @5oh5 @farmerlarrry @maximoff-forevermore @atinylittlepain @joeldjarin @spookyxsam @mrsmando @hyzer34 @limerence4u @sin-djarin @reddedmiller @joels-shitty-puns @elvinaa @kajashe @vee-bees-blog @josephquinnswhore @worhols

[violettduchess]

A/N: Because he didn't have one yet 💜

WC: ~600

He tastes like coffee and wonder, like fudge and fervor.

The minutes leading up to this moment, this embrace in the depth of night, began with you coming back through the mansion door just as the clock struck the midnight hour, one hand pushing back the rich hood of your cloak, revealing cheeks flushed from the cold and eyes bright as sunlight winking off a morning’s frost. Your smile was wide and warm and open as you stepped into the parlor, searching for him. Arthur took one look at you, threw down his hand of cards and with a light smile and breezy valediction, took your hand and took his leave, pulling you along with him, away from the knowing glances of the others.

Up the wide staircase you go, down the carpeted hallway with its arched windows letting in pale slants of moonlight. Your room is much too far away and his may as well be on the moon. 

He needs you now.

And so he pulls you into a shadowy alcove, pulls you against his lean body. You’re laughing softly, breathless, murmuring something about still wearing your cloak and boots and- 

“As if that matters, luv.” 

And then his lips are on yours and you realize, no, no it doesn’t matter at all. Although eager, his kiss begins soft, one hand sliding up, across the plane of your cheek, thumb stroking smooth skin. His lips leave yours to roam the line of your jaw, to prowl the sensitive place below your ear. You tilt your head back and allow him access to the slope of your neck, expecting him to sink his sharp fangs in immediately, unable to resist the feeling of lawless pleasure.

He does not.

Instead, kiss after kiss decorates your skin, as if you are a blank page and he is the writer, jotting formless words of desire and devotion, of tenderness and aching affection along your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder.

No one before you has ever mattered. You are the beginning of his greatest story.

His name is a sigh whispered into the shadows, your fingers catching his chin and lifting his head back up so you can kiss his mouth, the romance of the moment draped around you like silken cords. His hands slide under your cloak, untuck your blouse from your skirt and slide underneath, palms pressing against the bare skin of your back. Up they slide, along your spine, then back down the lines of your torso. You are softer than vellum, his fingertips curling and tracing a filigree along your waist. They feel feather-light, like ink trails across your skin.

“I need you,” he breathes against your lips, sincere and honest, his heart a fragile thing you hold in your hands. And you smile, clutching the nape of his neck. “I need you too.”

He lifts you into his arms, kissing you once more, this time harder, a kiss edged with the promise of what is to come. You curl against him, soft and boneless as his long legs carry you down the hall, towards your room. You close your eyes, nuzzling into his neck, dropping kisses like tiny sparks against his skin. 

His heart thunders in his chest at your touch and he knows, with every fiber of his being, that you love him, as he is. You, who pulled his gaze away from the regrets of his past and helped him close the chapters on the trauma that had haunted him for far too long. Your love cradles him and keeps him safe, a cover to his fragile pages and a promise for all that is still unwritten.

Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @greatstarlightstarfish @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @fang-and-feather @bubblexly @ozalysss @kiki-tties

[luvfy0dor]

"With a Big Cake, Happy Birthday ♡⁠˖" Fyodor Dostoevsky x GN!Reader ੈ✩‧₊˚

Warnings; None!

Description; Fyodor celebrates your birthday with you by eating cake for dinner because why not?

A/n; happy bday to me and any of my bday twins, I was gonna do an event but I chickened out because I had no ideas tbh so here's this. ALSO BIG THANKS TO MY POOKIE @ilovechuuy4 FOR ALL THE BDAY WISHES AND POSTS THEY MADE ME CRY SO HARD ☹️💜

ೃ⁀➷

Some time ago, you mentioned to your boyfriend the day of your birthday, and you almost thought he had forgotten. That was a rather silly mistake though. Fyodor could never forget such a thing, especially since it's your special day of the year.

The darkness of the early morning did anything but shine through your window as your alarm woke you up. You felt one of Fyodors thin arms drooped over your side, his chest rising and falling against your back. You lifted your head from your pillow, reaching for your phone and preparing yourself for the flashbang you would experience when you pushed the power button. Your eyes squinted as you tried to look at the bright rectangle of light in your hand, immediately turning the brightness down. It really did help, and you swiftly turned your alarm off. Scooching out of bed, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes and yawned. You could still hear Fyodors soft breathing as he snoozed in the bed. You smiled a bit before getting up and skittering off to go about your morning routine. Fyodor usually woke up before you, but you wanted him to get some sleep since he didn't really have a designated awakening time.

You threw on some clothing and ate something before returning to your bedroom to find Fyodor still in the same position. Fyodor has always slept like a rock, constantly sleeping in the same position. Quickly leaning down, you peck his forehead and re-adjust the covers over his body. You then exit the room, grabbing your keys with a small sigh and walk out the door, not really enthusiastic to spend your day at your job.

While you were away, Fyodors eyes peeked open, his face halfway covered by the blankets. He stretched underneath the covers and pushed them off of his body. He yawned and blinked the sleep away before calling out for you. "Y/n?" He asks, his soft voice cutting through the silence of the house. The lack of response told him you had already gone off to work. He didn't mind you leaving without waking him, but he did like saying goodbye to you. Especially on your birthday. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, his bony fingers pressing your contact and messaging you. His messages were always short and to the point, and this one was really no different.

"Good morning, Moya Lyubov. Happy birthday."

You smiled when you noticed the notification on your lock screen, happy that he remembered. You continued on with your day at work while Fyodor made the decision of baking you a cake. Fyodor was a great cook, but baking was slightly out of the scope of his talents. However, he didn't mind trying for his lover. He gathered his supplies, pulled his hair back and washed his hands. He googled a recipe and followed one that he thought you would really enjoy. He was limited to ingredients though, so he had to chose between chocolate or vanilla. He added the dry ingredients to one bowl and then added the wet ones, blending it all together to create the cake batter. He poured it into three separate pans after spraying some butter around the sides. While the cakes cooked, he made a caramel filling for in between the layers. It didn't take very long for the cakes to cook, coming out nearly perfect with nothing on the toothpick he penetrated the center with. He hummed I'm approval and set the cakes to the side to cool.

He then created a buttercream frosting, taste testing it on a separate spoon to ensure that it was sweet enough for your liking. He spreads the filling on top of the two bottom cake layers and frosted it, proud of his work upon finishing it. He also found some sprinkles in the cabinet, so he scattered them on top of the cake, sticking it in the refrigerator until you got home. Until then, he would wash his hands once more and head to his little office-like work room.

Hours had passed and he was getting a substantial amount of work done when he hears your soft footsteps throughout the house. He raised an eyebrow, realizing he must've missed the door opening. He got up and walked out into the hallway. "Are you home, my dear?" He calls out. Unlike this morning, he receives a reply. "Yeah, I'm back." You say from the living room. He goes to greet you, pulling you into a gentle hug and kissing your forehead, mumbling against your skin and taking your hand. "Welcome back, did you have a good birthday?" He asked, looking at you through his long, dark eyelashes, the usual microscopic smile tugging at the corner of his lips. You just sighed and slumped your shoulders a little. "I mean, it wasn't necessarily bad but I'm sure it'll be so much better now that I can spend time with you instead."

"Hmm, I'll try to make it as good as possible for you, my love." He says, resting his head stop yours. "While you were gone, I made you a cake." He says, his eyes closed while he just stands with you for a moment. Your eyes light up when he says that, and you can't help but squeeze his hand and press a soft kiss to his collarbone. "Really? You didn't have to do that for me." You humbly say, moving your head from under his chin to look at him. "Well why not? I did it out of my own will, not obligation." He says, his voice smooth and soft as he spoke. "It's your birthday, you deserve something special, no?" He questions you, his own hair falling in front of his face. You grin and nod, accepting his kind gesture. "Yeah, I guess you're right." You say. He gives you a small smile and leads you to the kitchen. He drops your hand in order to take the cake out of the fridge, setting it on the counter. "I'm certainly no chef-" you cut off his accented speech with a peck on his lips. "It doesn't matter, I'm still very grateful." You say, grabbing two forks and handing him one of them.

The both of you start to eat the cake, talking about your day amongst other things. He listened to you talk a lot, he really did love the sound of your voice. Even if you were just yapping to yap, he didn't care in the moment. His head leaned into his fist as he took bites contently, his eyes staring at you while you spoke with both your mouth and hands. Over the course of 15 minutes, you and Fyodor had chipped away about one third of the cake while exchanging sweet words between your conversations. You also inched closer to him, his arm around your waist with your hand cupping his cheek, a bit of frosting on his cheek from your finger. Your conversations continued with the cake sitting further down on the counter from the spot Fyodor was leaned against. You leaned in and kissed him on the corner of his lips before you wiped the frosting off with your ring finger, sucking it off. He smile and guided your chin closer, pulling you in and pressing a gentle, loving kiss to your pretty lips.

You hummed, one hand on his shoulder and the other twirling some of his hair. You pulled away after a moment and he spoke up. "I hope you like the cake, moya lyubov." He softly says, his cheeks tinted red in the slightest. You nodded. "Ofcourse I loved it. The cake made my day, like, a million times better. You being here alone already does that." You say hugging him and resting your head on his shoulder. He rubs your back gently, his cool hands sliding up your shirt as you both stand together. "I'm glad I could do that for you." He confesses truthfully, his thin fingers tracing shapes onto your skin while the both of you just kinda sway together for a moment; starting off your peaceful and sweet night with your lover.

A/n; Thank you guys so much for always enjoying the stuff I put out, it makes me so happy! I hit 5k likes the other day and wanted to cry because of how happy I was lol, so thank you!!! 💜

[damienpriest]

damian priest in nxt was so pookie wookie blueberry muffin recipe cutie patootie little ratatouille chef cheesecake pie cherry on top whipped cream chocolate frosting with sprinkles and vanilla sugar toe curling, blood boiling chocolate ganache cake strawberry cream morning coffee with creamer, snookie dookie wookie pookie gumdrop snickerdoodle honey bunches of cats pumpkin pie toaster strudel blueberry cheesecake muffin berry topped with peanut butter jelly jam sprinkles and blue raspberry crumbs with a side of vanilla ice tea with extra sugar and ganache sprinkled rotisserie chicken with soy sauce and milk, popeye biscuit with honey, toyota camry interior desian landscapina buisness. cookie roast pancake sweet honeybun sweetie bear marmalade cheese curd mochicken, small fry cracker barrel old people cutie bune sweet cheeks me chicken christmas split presents, sweet smelling candle wrapped in a hot dog with cookie wookie snookie sugar honey bun ball sugar plum 💜

[battyaboutbooksreviews]

🌈 Good morning and happy Wednesday, my bookish bats! You didn't think that tiny "queer books coming out this fall" guide was ALL there was, did you? Here are a FEW of the stunning, diverse queer books you can add to your TBR this month. Happy reading!

❤️ A Vision of Air by Nicole Silver 🧡 Eli Over Easy by Phil Stamper 💛 How to Get Over the End of the World by Hal Schrieve 💚 Kween by Vichet Chum 💙 The Forest Demands its Due by Kosoko Jackson 💜 The B-Side of Daniel Garneau by David Kingston Yeh ❤️ Midnight Companion by Kit Barrie 🧡 Let the Waters Roars by Geonn Cannon 💛 Into the Glittering Dark by Kelley York 💙 When the Rain Begins to Burn by A.L. Davidson 💜 Been Outside by Amber Wendler & Shaz Zamore 🌈 The Forest Demands Its Due by Kosoko Jackson

❤️ A Necessary Chaos by Brent Lambert 🧡 The Spells We Cast by Jason June 💛 Pluralities by Avi Silver 💚 Salt the Water by Candice Iloh 💙 Beholder by Ryan La Sala 💜 This Pact is Not Ours by Zachary Sergi ❤️ Dragging Mason County by Curtis Campbell 🧡 Menewood by Nicola Griffith 💛 Mary and the Birth of Frankenstein by Anne Eekhout 💚 The Dead Take the A Train by Cassandra Khaw & Richard Kadrey 💙 Bloom by Delilah S. Dawson 💜 Let Me Out by Emmett Nahil and George Williams

🌈 In the Form of a Question: the Joys and Rewards of a Curious Life by Amy Schneider ❤️ Songs of Irie by Asha Ashanti Bromfield 🧡 A Haunting on the Hill by Elizabeth Hand 💛 Being Ace by Madeline Dyer 💚 Charming Young Man by Eliot Schrefer 💙 The Glass Scientists by S.H. Cotugno 💜 The Fall of Whit Rivera by Crystal Maldonado ❤️ By Any Other Name by Erin Cotter 🧡 Brooms by Jasmine Walls and Teo DuVall 💛 Stars in Your Eyes by Kacen Callender 💚 Shoot the Moon by Isa Arsen 💙 The Bell in the Fog by Lev A.C. Rosen

🌈 Brainwyrms by Alison Rumfitt ❤️ Family Meal by Bryan Washington 🧡 A Murder of Crows by Dharma Kelleher 💛 A Light Most Hateful by Hailey Piper 💚 Love at 350° by Lisa Peers 💙 Greasepaint by Hannah Levene 💜 The Christmas Swap by Talia Samuels ❤️ Mate of Her Own by Elena Abbott 🧡 Mistletoe and Mishigas by M.A. Wardell 💛 Elle Campbell Wins Their Weekend by Ben Kahn 💚 All That Consumes Us by Erica Waters 💙 If You’ll Have Me by Eunnie

❤️ Tomorrow and Tomorrow by Lillah Lawson and Lauren Emily Whalen 🧡 10 Things That Never Happened by Alexis Hall 💛 It’s a Fabulous Life by Kelly Farmer 💚 Let the Dead Bury the Dead by Allison Epstein 💙 These Burning Stars by Bethany Jacobs 💜 The Goth House Experiment by SJ Sindu ❤️ Everything I Learned, I Learned in a Chinese Restaurant by Curtis Chin 🧡 Mudflowers by Aley Waterman 💛 Here Lies Olive by Kate Anderson 💚 Fire From the Sky by Moa Backe Åstot, trans. by Eva Apelqvist 💙 Iris Kelly Doesn’t Date by Ashley Herring Blake 💜 On the Same Page by Haley Cass

❤️ A Dish Best Served Hot by Natalie Caña 🧡 Art of the Chase by Jennifer Giacalone 💛 The Haunting of Adrian Yates by Markus Harwood-Jones 💚 The Sword: Xcian by Elle Arroyo 💙 The Complete Carlisle Series by Roslyn Sinclair 💜 300,000 Kisses by Sean Hewitt and Luke Edward Hall ❤️ Just a Pinch of Magic by Alechia Dow 🧡 Blackouts by Justin Torres 💛 Wrath Becomes Her by Aden Polydoros 💚 Let the Woods Keep Our Bodies by E.M. Roy 💙 Everything Under the Moon: Fairy Tales in a Queerer Light edited by Michael Earp ❤️ Frost Bite by Angela Sylvaine

🧡 We Met in a Bar by Claire Forsythe 💛 Sweat Equity Aurora Rey 💚 Pumpkin Spice by Tagan Shepard 💙 The Misfit Mage & His Dashing Devil by M.N. Bennet 💜 Love and Other Risky Business by Sarah Brenton ❤️ Enough by Kimia Eslah 🧡 A Fire Born of Exile by Aliette de Bodard 💛 Twelve Bones by Rosie Talbot 💚 Wild Wishes and Windswept Kisses by Maya Prasad 💙 Dragged to the Wedding by Andrew Grey 💜 Fox Snare by Yoon Ha Lee ❤️ Murder and Manon by Mia P. Manansala

[shywhumpauthor]

Hero finds villain, who was missing for ages, just walking down the street and they see that villain is badly injured and they freak out

(I apologise for my strange grammar lol)

Also gender neutral if you can!!!

I love your work sm

-💜

Of course! My nameless character stuff is almost always gender neutral btw!

I realize this wasn’t written entirely to match the request, I got a bit carried away lol, hope this is close enough!

Cw: cold whump, overworking, exhaustion, unhealthy work relationship, kinda obsession? Abuse, injuries, implied torture/kidnapping, mentioned accidental almost-killing, mentioned infection

Hero was running on two hours of sleep and a venti cup of espresso. To say they were exhausted was an understatement. The only thing keeping them upright was the fact that they were physically unable to sit still.

They were nearing the tenth month now, and things weren't getting better.

When Villain had first disappeared, Hero had tried to convince themself it was a good thing. That it was for the better. Their nemesis, the one whom they had been spending day and night trying to capture, plotting their downfall, straight up and disappeared. It was good, it was what Hero had wanted all along, right? To bring peace to the city, to once and for all protect it from the very person who's sole intent was to burn it to the ground.

They had tried not to care too much. They were sure there was some sort of reasoning to explain why Villain just left. Off the map, complete radio silence. Perhaps they had a moral awakening. They got out of bed one morning, realized what they were doing was wrong, and just stopped. Abandoned whatever malicious plans they were in the middle of carrying out, and began to lead a normal, legal life. It was a nice thought, but Hero knew better than to believe it. They knew Villain better than to believe it.

Superhero had told them not to bother looking. Villain was gone, now they could focus better on the new uprising threat of Supervillain. If they weren’t causing trouble, they weren’t worth their attention. It’s not your job anymore, Superhero had said. Not their job, not their problem. It shouldn’t have been taking up their attention.

But there was a feeling, the nagging thoughts that lingered in the back of their mind, telling them that something wasn’t right. The little pinpricks of unease that rose whenever they thought of the criminal that wouldn’t let them sleep at night, wouldn’t let them focus.

So they started to look. Pulling on every thread of an idea, flipping the city upside down in their efforts. They searched all the records, visited all the past scenes of conflicts, searching for hints as to where the criminal may have gone. There was nothing. The police records cut off at the same date Villain had gone missing. Every crime since had been traceable to a certain person at a certain time, and none of them were villain.

Maybe they left, Superhero had tried to console them, urging them back to work. Maybe they found a different city. They’re not your problem anymore, Hero.

But they were their problem. Superhero’s words had only prompted them to search the surrounding cities as well, and a few beyond that as well. Nothing.

That’s how they found themself walking. The sidewalk was slicked with frost, the first flurries of a snowstorm just beginning to break from the thick carpet of dark clouds. Walking, they didn’t know where they were going, didn’t know when they would stop. They knew they ought to get inside, to return home before the storm left them stranded in the middle of the city. The streets were near empty, anyone sensible had gone indoors long before, only dotted with the occasional straggling car or lonesome person hurrying to shelter.

Their breath clouded against the air, hands stuffed deep in their jacket’s pockets. Maybe they’d stop at some twenty-four hour cafe, shelter there for a bit while refueling their depleted caffeine supplements. Yeah, that’s what they’d do. Get out of the storm before they froze, warm up by a heater and a steaming mug before returning to their aimless search. They didn’t know where they were looking, only a faint idea of who they were looking for, but any efforts were better than none.

•••

Hero couldn’t say they saw them at first. They were like a shadow, curled between some dirty steps and an alley wall, their frail body sheltered behind a flimsy sheen of fabric that did little to protect against the onslaught of cold. Their mind didn’t even comprehend it at first, mistaking the lumpy form for another snow-covered trash bag full of whatever muck lined the filthy streets. They only did a double-take when they heard the sound, a cough so small, so weak it was nearly lost to the wind. They hesitated in their tracks, their body moving on account rather than their mind before backpedaling a few steps.

It took them a few moments to discern that the hunched figure was in fact a person, and a few more to figure out if they were even alive. But then they coughed again, bony frail hand, blistered and pale from the frost raised to cover their mouth.

“Hey,” Hero was moving towards them before they could think twice. They were a hero, after all. They helped people regardless of all factors. It was their job. “Hey, buddy, you gotta get inside-”

The words died against their tongue as they watched the figure cringe, their head raising just a fraction so they could glare through half-swollen eyes. Hero froze, their heart sinking down to rest like a weight in the pits of their stomach, heavy and sickening. Their face, what was visible of it behind the fabric—Hero couldn’t tell if it was a blanket, a shawl, or some tattered jacket, it was so worn—was littered with all sorts of marks. Bruises and scratches and scars, fresh and old alike, skin smudged with dried flecks of blood and grime.

“Gedd’away from me,” Their voice came out more rasp than words, syllables so deformed it took Hero a moment to register what had been said.

“Woah, calm down, calm down,” Hero held their hands out as they took a slow step forwards, trying to show they weren’t a threat. The stranger still drew back, eyes flashing with a fearful, raw emotion. “My name’s Hero, I can help you, okay? I can bring you to a hospital, or the station-“

“Hero?” They repeated, the words falling uneasy from their busted lips. Something shone darkly behind their features, their expression hardening into a cold hostility.

“Yeah, I’m Hero. Can you tell me your name? Do you know what happened?” Hero crouched down, their knees hitting against the cracked sidewalk as they lowered to the stranger’s level.

“Get away,” The other spat, words dripping with a venom colder than the wind. Hero was taken aback, not just by the sheer hatred shining in their eyes, but the force which they spoke, not at all matching their broken voice. “I don’t- I don’t want your help. Go- go,”

Even if it had been warm out, and the person didn’t look like they had been beaten an inch from death, Hero wouldn’t have left. A twinge of something nagged at their mind, only prompting them to inch closer despite the stranger’s hissed curses.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Hero said slowly and clearly, the icy wind threatening to snatch the hat from their head, to free their scarf to the storm. “Please, let me help you,”

“Fucking- get away!” The stranger screamed, their grain legs kicking out and nearly catching Hero in the knee. They were quick to jump back, though lacking their usual graceful precision, eyes widening. “Get away from me!”

As they yelled, the fabric slipped from their form, falling past their shoulders. They were quick to snatch it up, covering their head once more, but not before Hero saw the mark on the side of their neck. Hidden amongst an array of deep purple splotches and scorched burns, the thin white scar Hero had grown so familiar to over the years. Just under their jaw, stretching nearly halfway across their throat before curving up towards their chin. Hero knew that scar so well, burned into their mind. It had been their dagger that made it after all. A mistake, it had been. When they were about to take Villain into custody, they had wrenched back. They hadn’t been aware of the blade in the skirmish, nearly slitting their own throat in the frenzy for escape.

They knew that scar so well because had hd been the one to carry Villain back to their home, to take care of the wound and all the others they sustained in the midst of the fight, provide them antibiotics and comfort through the subsequent infection.

“Shit,” Hero whispered, a low ringing settling in their ears. They stood up straight and the world lurched around them, tilting and swaying around Villain’s abused, hateful expression.

Shit.

——————————

We all know superhero 10000% kidnapped and ruthlessly tortured villain

[catgrassplantdad]

weekly tag wednesday 🎃

thanks for tagging me @deedala @creepkinginc @energievie @crossmydna !!! 💜

Name: jessie

Age: 33

Favorite color: earthy greens and burnt oranges 🌲🧡

What emoji best describes your current mood? 😰

What season is it where you are right now? autumn🍂

Were you up before or after the sun this morning? after.

Are you currently in possession of a pumpkin? three teeny tiny ones that my mom brought over! one for me, one for my husband, one for our cat lol

Do you prefer to carve or paint your jack-o-lanterns? carve! but it's been a few years since i did that. 🎃

Do you have a favorite pumpkin-spice flavored treat? If so, what is it? i prefer a baked good to a flavored drink, like i love a pumpkin muffin with cream cheese frosting.

What's your favorite season and what's your favorite pie that you associate with it? autumn and pecan pie. mm. 🥧

We're having a pot-luck, what are you going to bring? mulled wine and cheese and onion pie.

It's chilly outside and you need a hot drink in your hands, what are you drinking? black coffee or a dirty chai ☕

Will you be wearing a costume for Halloween? Is it ready? i won't be wearing a costume this year but i do have a costume ready from when i was garth from wayne's world a few years ago. i also have a big fancy witch hat that i throw on when i'm giving out candy to trick or treaters.

Finally, what's something you've made or done recently that you're proud of? kicking my ass into gear and getting back into my regular workout routine. i miss my boulder shoulders. i miss being energized and sleeping better. but i'm doing really well with it and i'm proud and i feel good!

tagging @howlinchickhowl @gallawitchxx @whatwouldmickeydo @heymrspatel @whatthebodygraspsnot @gardenerian @squidyyy23 @rereadanon @thisdivorce @too-schoolforcool @suzy-queued @darlingian @mmmichyyy @palepinkgoat @sleepyfacetoughguy @arrowflier if you guys wanna play 🖤

[sinnaea]

Rebecca's Valentine

A short and sweet Valentine's Day fluff piece. A week late but I still wanted to at least push it out in February. This is a bit of a change of pace from what I usually write. But I hope you all still enjoy! As always, thank you for reading 💜

Summary Rebecca is finally ready to reveal her secret admiration for Jill on Valentine’s Day, thinking it would be the perfect time. But as the day arrives, she discovers Jill despises the “holiday.” Having her initial plan shot down, Rebecca is now unsure of confessing her adoration.

AO3 link

Rebecca Chambers sat alone in the S.T.A.R.S. office and stared inside the open drawer of her desk. Inside was a simple blue gift bag with white tissue paper poking out at the top. The diligent rookie was always the first to arrive to the office ever since she was hired just a couple months ago and she never missed a beat. Especially not today.

Today was Valentine’s Day.

The rookie made sure to arrive early so she could hide the blue gift bag in her desk before anyone could see as to not ruin the surprise. She was also afraid she would be teased for it as it might come across as juvenile. Despite Rebecca’s impressive background and past achievements for someone at her age, it wasn’t quite easy adjusting to her new career as a S.T.A.R.S. officer. All her teammates were undoubtedly professional young men. But they were just that. Men.

Every day in the office was a constant swirl of testosterone with the occasional dick joke thrown around. It was certainly not all too bothersome to the young rookie, but she certainly wished for some of that tough-guy atmosphere to be softened. And there was only one other person who could cut that tension in the room.

Jill Valentine.

If there truly was an award for the toughest S.T.A.R.S. officer, Jill would sweep the competition. Not only could she keep up with every teammate that was nearly twice her size, there was a sweet and charming side to her that everyone adored. And Rebecca undeniably adored Jill and maybe even more.

Ever since Rebecca was hired, Jill had been by her side nearly every step of the way. Guiding her like an older sister. Protecting her on the field. Teaching her funny jabs to say back at her teammates when they pulled her leg.

Rebecca’s lips curved into a smile and her heart anticipated with thrill as she quietly closed the drawer of her desk. She would finally express her admiration and appreciation for Jill on this day. She straightened her posture in her seat and organized her desktop as she thought about how she would present the gift.

Maybe I’ll take her aside after morning briefing, she thought to herself. But what if she gets a big assignment? Maybe after that. Or at lunch! So she’ll have something sweet after her meal. But what if she leaves the precinct for lunch? And I won’t be able to see her?

Rebecca grew frustrated at all the intrusive thoughts invading her brain. It was Valentine’s Day; Jill’s day. She wanted it to be perfect. But she shook off those thoughts and ultimately decided to just give her the gift as soon as she walked through the office door. Not caring if the others would poke fun about it. It was a now or never moment.

But the rookie’s worrying brain stirred up again.

What should I say when I see her? It has to be more than just a ‘thank you.’ She needs to know how much I really like her…I want her to know.

The office door suddenly swung open. The rookie tensed as her cheeks blushed in nervous suspense. But her emotions settled slightly when she saw her teammates Chris Redfield and Joseph Frost walk in. They greeted her like it was any other day.

“Hey, Rebecca,” said Chris.

“Mornin’, rookie,” said Joseph.

“Good morning,” Rebecca replied with hidden disappointment.

Jill and Chris usually arrived together since they were partners so it was unusual to see Joseph instead of her.

The door to the office opened.

The pitter-patter of Rebecca’s heart started up again. It had to be Jill.

Richard Aiken stepped in with his typical youthful smile and morning welcome.

Rebecca’s shoulders dropped, but then…

Barry Burton’s naturally heavy steps came through the doorway.

She sighed, until…

Captain Wesker silently slipped in and went straight for this office.

The rookie slumped back in her chair. She didn’t know how much more her heart could take.

The door opened once again…and walked in Forest Speyer.

Where the hell is she?! Rebecca thought as she rubbed her face and became more and more discouraged.

Finally, the door opened once again and at last Jill Valentine entered the room. But the rookie was caught off guard as she sat frozen and watched her teammates simultaneously turn their attention toward Jill.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” they all cheered in a mocking manner.

Jill heavily set down her bag on her desk in annoyance. “Oh, ha ha!” she laughed sarcastically and plopped herself down on her chair with a disgusted grunt. “You know how much I hate this stupid day.”

Time froze for Rebecca. She stopped breathing. A thorny lump lodged in her throat. All the blood in her body drained. She was in a momentary state of shock.

Jill hated Valentine’s Day.

Rebecca’s plan was ruined. Her eyes grew disheartened as they wandered to her desk drawer. Presenting the gift to Jill now would be worse than her teammates humiliating her about it. What was she to do now?

“Morning, Rebecca,” Jill greeted.

She finally snapped out of her daze. “Morning!” she said with a slightly cracked voice. The situation needed to be turned around to salvage Rebecca’s plan. She swallowed that nervous lump in her throat and said, “I think Valentine’s Day can be fun. Getting gifts from someone is always a win in my book.”

Jill scoffed and rolled her eyes. “It’s not a real holiday. It’s a scam to get you to buy cheap candy.”

Ouch. Rebecca’s heart broke in half.

“Plus, these bastards tease me about it every single goddamn year.”

All the guys in the room chuckled.

Rebecca’s eyes lowered in dismay. “I guess you’re right,” she pretended to agree. “It is kind of stupid, isn’t it?”

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Rebecca thought to herself throughout the entire day. After hearing cheap Valentine jokes directed at Jill all over the precinct, Rebecca should have known how much she would despise this day. It was tiresome and very annoying even for Rebecca. Jill had to endure this every year.

The shift had come to an end but Valentine’s Day had not. Rebecca sat alone in the women’s locker room with the blue gift bag resting on her lap. She sighed still thinking whether or not she should give it to Jill or just eat the sweets herself.

She’s right, Rebecca thought sullenly. It is a stupid day.

She started to pull out the white tissue from the top.

“Someone has a secret admirer?” a familiar voice flirtatiously teased from behind.

Rebecca clutched the bag close to her chest and turn to find Jill hovering behind her. Intrigued, Jill grinned and eyed at the bag.

“Jill!” Rebecca gasped in surprise. The bag crinkled in her nervous grasp.

“Who’s it from?” Jill asked curiously.

Rebecca quickly stuffed the tissue paper back inside the bag and hastily readied herself to leave. “It’s from nobody. It’s nothing.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Jill pressed. “I promise I won’t tell.”

“I thought you didn’t like Valentine’s Day?” Rebecca asked, feeling a little resentment building.

“Sure, but I’m not gonna ruin someone else’s day just because it’s not for me.”

Rebecca shut her eyes tight but loosened her grip on the blue gift bag.

Now or never.

Gathering up all her courage, a deep exhale left Rebecca’s lungs as she looked Jill right in the eyes. “It’s actually for you.”

Jill chuckled in a bit of disbelief, unsure if Rebecca was joking. “What? Really?”

Rebecca nodded and slightly turned her blushing face away. “From me to you. As a thank-you for everything since I started working here. I thought it would be kinda cute to give you a little something today since it shares the same name as yours. If I had known you didn’t like Valentine’s Day, I would have chosen any other day of the year to show your my utmost appreciation.” The rookie was starting to ramble at this point and caught herself before she spiraled down into a hole. She lifted the now crinkled bag toward Jill. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Jill looked pleasantly shocked as she stared at the blue gift bag with a happy grin forming on her face. Her hands slowly reached for the bag and held it delicately with her fingertips.

“Rebecca,” she said softly. “Is this really for me?”

Rebecca nodded again and smiled timidly. “I would have given it to you earlier, but I didn’t want to upset you. It’s nothing special really. Just a-”

Jill immediately stepped forward, placed a hand on Rebecca’s cheek and planted a tender kiss on her lips.

Rebecca froze again, but this moment warmed her. All the gloom she had been carrying throughout the day melted away as soon as she felt Jill’s soft lips connect with hers. A shaky hot breath escaped her nose as she finally relaxed her eyes and kissed her back. Soothing and satisfying. It was sweeter than all the sweets combined on Valentine’s Day.

Jill gently broke away from their caress, but Rebecca secretly never wanted it to end.

“Oh, Rebecca,” Jill sighed wistfully. “I’m not upset. Thank you so much for this. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Still a bit stunned from their kiss, Rebecca watched Jill open up the gift bag. Jill’s eyes lit up as she pulled out a heart-shaped cookie with the words “Happy Jill Valentine’s Day” written in blue frosting. An endearing giggle left her lips as she smiled down at the treat.

“Honestly, I don’t really hate Valentine’s Day,” Jill began. “It’s just the first thing that comes to everyone’s mind on this day is to tease me about it.”

She broke the heart-shaped cookie in half. Some of its crumbs fell to the floor.

“But no one has ever thought to gift me anything.”

She held up the other half to Rebecca.

“I know it’s a silly thing to be upset about, but it would be nice to have someone be genuine toward me. And you were the first one to ever do that. Let’s share this together.”

Rebecca’s eyes softened as she accepted the other half of the cookie from Jill. They both took a bite with warm smiles on their faces.

But those smiles began to twist and they chewed more slowly in an attempt to hide a more sour appearance. Something just didn’t taste right and neither wanted to speak up about it to not ruin the moment.

“Um…” Rebecca mumbled with a mouth full of cookie. She finally forced herself to swallow it down. “Maybe I should have wrapped it so wouldn’t get stale.”

Jill instantly covered her mouth and held back a laugh and was careful not to choke as she forced down the dry cookie.

Finally, a burst of laugher erupted from both of them.

Side by side, Rebecca and Jill walked out the front doors of the precinct together. Rebecca felt a little awkward as they walked toward the gate perimeter. She was delighted to finally express her feelings to Jill and delighted that Jill was very accepting. But what now? Rebecca never really found herself in a situation like this and wasn’t sure how to continue from here.

“You know,” Jill said, breaking the silence. Then, she suddenly hooked her arm onto Rebecca’s and squeezed her hand. “I’m still a little hungry.”

Rebecca blushed at Jill’s open affection with her. She looked at Jill’s heartwarming smile and just knew there would be something more between them. Rebecca squeezed her hand gently. “Oh, yeah?” she replied enthusiastically. “What do you feel like?”

“How about I treat you to some pizza? Since you treated us to dessert early.”

Rebecca giggled. “I can’t say ‘no’ to that.”

“Then it’s settled,” Jill said and nodded. “I’m taking you out on a date.”

Arm in arm, hand in hand, Rebecca and Jill felt the warm glow of the late afternoon sun as they headed downtown for their first date and to many more in the future.

[marengogo]

hi!!

i have some questions regarding the cake issue, i'd ask chikooritajjk, but i'm honestly terrified of them 😞

did the other members get a cake for a pre release track?

ik jin got one for 'astronaut' and jk got one for both 'dreamers' + 'seven', but those are both singles...

so imo it's a little weird that the company would get tae a cake for a 'love me again' and 'rainy days' and not just wait for his album

also i saw them talking about wasting cake, but isn't there a thing where they can have the bakery frost styrofoam so it'll look like a cake? plus the members are given cakes on their birthday and sometimes they don't eat them...

don't want to cause issues btw! if jimin really didn't want a cake, i'm fine with it bc that's his choice, i'm just confused about some things

if you don't feel like answering, you don't have to!

ik you (and other bloggers) are not chikooritajjk's mail box and if i was able to come off anon without causing myself a anxiety attack 🙃, i would definitely just ask them directly! but i also like your thoughts and opinions as well on bts and jikook related things 😊

sorry for bothering you 💜

so i see my ask was taken the wrong way 😞 just want to clear up a few things i don't hate chikooritajjk, i honestly think they're lovely and are very helpful with explaining things (streaming, bts, jikook, queer topics ect), so it does make me sad that it came across that way i'm scared of them bc i have social anxiety and really want to talk to them about things they discuss (i know, it's a me problem, got that 🫡) and trust me, it took a lot to even send that ask bc ik people don't always like answering asks concerning other bloggers wasn't trying to sabotage your friendship with them either, i follow both your blogs and love BOTH OF YOUR POSTS i sent the cake ask bc i'm genuinely confused and had some questions, and like i said ik it was more so an ask for chikooritajjk, but you have been interacting their posts and agreeing with them and i also wanted to hear YOUR OWN thoughts on it i don't mind being corrected or told i'm wrong btw, as long as someone isn't rude or disrespectful (which neither you or chikooritajjk have been btw!!) i do fear that this interaction has only reinforced my issues with interacting off anon with jkkrs though, after this i'll leave you both alone (won't send anymore asks), as that is probably you want so sorry for bothering you both, i truly did not mean to cause any discomfort or issues with my ask and probably this one.... hope you both are doing well and can't wait for more of your insightful posts! — a lost anon

Hello 🎂-Anon,

Hope you don’t mind me calling you like this, if you do please let me know.

I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out the best way to tackle your Ask as I think I’ve kinda already addressed your second ask in my post this morning. See, the thing is, whoever “baked” this particular conspiracy was so successful that many are now really so convinced that the absence of said eggs, flour & milk are actually a substantial part of a lot of the evil surrounding JM. 

But let me start with the easy part of the Ask. “did the other members get a cake for a pre release track?” Namjoon didn’t get a single slice of cake from Hybe, be it pre-release or release don't worry about what the tweet says, just want you to check out the type of cakes Joonie received, if you are interested!:

Two of the cakes were given to him by separate groups of his own friends and one was sent to him by the production team of “The Dictionary of Useless Human Knowledge”.

Now, to get back to the “source of evil” topic, it is very much an issue with the way that Chapter 2 is unfolding. It’s not about eggs, flour & milk, but about the people who found a way to make you believe that eggs, flour & milk are part of the problem. It’s about not being aware of what kind of space your SM environment might have turned into, such as not knowing that Namjoon also didn’t receive a cake, because the same people who are guiding your perception are also, shaping your environment and trying to create narratives that heavily aid in hindering the gravity of real issues that the boys might be facing.

So please, if you can, forget about the cake 🎂-Anon! It’s not about wastage or the performative act, or whatever. Did JM want cake from HYBE specifically? Unless he tells us, we can’t know, I mean if you ask me, he seems to have planned his FACE WEVERSE live to a T, I really don’t think he wanted any. Anyways, what we do now know though, thanks to Tae, is that there is a high possibility he might have not wanted it. Same as Joon.

The mishandling of Chapter 2 is so Ugh! Quite literally it is as if Pandora’s Box was opened and all sorts of shit just came rushing out 😩😩😩. BUT I will address all of these in the post I mentioned that I am working on, so for now, If I could please ask you to take a second and think about the boys real quick. MEGA-Celebrities who have been in the game for 10 years (without counting pre-debut) and not only that, they are part of the biggest group on this planet, they are BIG-big, with big money, and big problems … do you see them losing sleep over eggs, flour & milk? 

Should we be? 

Hope this answers your question and I really do hope you’ll be looking forward to my post, cause, ONCE AGAIN, I REALLY CAN'T STRESS THIS ENOUGH: There is soooooo much in Chapter 2 that needs to be address for-real-real ��. 

Always respectfully yours 💜🫰🏾,

Marengo.

[celestialmint]

I couldn't get the thought of Magnai watching (😳) Frost stretch in the morning before heading out to learn more about the Oronir tribe out of my head. Frost is my non-binary bunny (non-bunary?), and is comfortable with all pronouns like me 💛🤍💜🖤

[unseenacademic]

3. What’s your favorite fic that you’ve written?

6. Are there any fics from others you reread all the time?

14. If you could see one of your fics adapted into a visual medium, such as comic or film, which fan fic would you pick?

3. Oh, this is hard! But I guess my favorite is Breathe. It deals with the aftermath of the MS scandal, from Abbey's perspective, because this is a plot I'm very passionate about and I'm also very upset with the inherent sexism of the society and the system, which enabled Jed to get away with a slap on the wrist, while Abbey lost her medical license in an act of sacrifice. It takes place the morning after the party in "Dead Irish Writers", it's Abbey's birthday and she's about to face NH Medical Board. Oh and it takes place in February, not March! A weird hill to die on, I know lol

6. Yes, there are! There are two series of fics that I return to all the time because they're so good!

There is a beautiful series which portrays Jed and Abbey's lives together from the moment they meet in college up to (currently) the late '80s. It's written by Abby J and Amber L and some parts of the series can also be found on ao3, this is Part One. The authors are meticulous about canon and Abbey and Jed deal with different challenges, raising three kids with very demanding careers and there's also smut, because it's Jed and Abbey.

There is also this wonderful, wonderful fic by Amanda, a post-ep for "No exit" (season 5) which deals with the aftermath of the drill and Jed and Abbey's strained relationship. They are perfectly in character, the writing style is beautiful and of course there's very hot smut, because it's Jed and Abbey. Actually there are many great fics written by Amanda, a couple of AUs where Jed deals with the world politics (I know, I know...), but mostly post-eps dealing with seasons 5 and 6. Masters of of their Fates (season 6), O, Canada (post-ep for "Dead Irish Writers"), No Syringe in the Night Stand (post-ep for "Abu el Banat") etc.

14. I know it's impossible, since it's been 25 years, but I would LOVE to see White Christmas as a Christmas episode/flashback. Imagine Stockard and Martin bantering and quoting Robert Frost at each other, Brad slipping on the stairs and earning himself a pink bandaid, Richard sulking and sipping his eggnog... aaaand we'd get to see the daughters and the granddaughter!

Thank you, friend! 💜💜💜💜

More Fanfic Writer Asks

[onekisstotakewithme]

2023 Fic Masterlist

Happy New Year! It was my first full year of writing "The West Wing" fanfic and I loved every minute of it. Aaron Sorkin's work has me by the throat... so behold: the fic round-up for the year.

Works in Progress (WIPs)

An Idea, Whose Time has Come (3/20 chapters posted) - "Could always run for President." It’s been twenty years since CJ Cregg joined Jed Bartlet’s campaign, and with another election looming, Danny makes a suggestion: CJ should run for President. So she does. And on the campaign trail, along with a new staff, a hostile incumbent, and a familiar rival candidate, CJ also has to grapple with the legacy and impact of her twenty years in public service – good, bad, and ugly – while preparing for the most important election of her career. CJ/Danny, presidential campaign shenanigans. also side Josh/Donna, Will/Kate, lots of original characters. Some smut. 14k so far. (A present for my dear friend miabicicletta 💜)

CJ/Danny

None of Us are More Than Caretakers (12 chapters) - “The president’s dead.” Three weeks before Inauguration, things appear to be running smoothly. Transition is going (mostly) well, Kazakhstan is (mostly) stable, and CJ is (mostly) happy with how things are going with Danny. Everything is taken care of. And then former president Gerald Ford dies. Set between "The Last Hurrah" and "Institutional Memory". 66k.

Off the Record (22 chapters) - “And this… thing… would be…?” “Off the record.” (Or, one missing scene per episode). Season 1 missing scenes. 31k.

A Night to Watch - “So how does it feel, watching yourself become unemployed in real time?” Tag to Election Day Parts I & II. 6k.

Fallout - It’s only been a few hours, but already the dinner with Danny feels like it was an entire lifetime ago. Tag to "Duck and Cover." 3.1k.

our secret moments (in a crowded room) - Secret Dating. Tag to "Drought Conditions". Written for the twwpress Wheel of Destiny 500 word Drabble Challenge. 500 words.

The Fall - “What do you want, Danny?” “Saw you on C-SPAN this morning, Sundance. Wanted to see how you were handling the rise to power.” “You mean you wanted to see if the fall killed me.” Tag to "Liftoff." Butch & Sundance Part II. 2.6k

You're Gonna Die Bloody (and All You Can Do is Choose Where) - The hearings will turn over every rock in her life, every email, every phone call – and of course they’ll see Danny’s name – but she can’t drag him down any further. Tag to "The Ticket", "The Mommy Problem", "Mr. Frost"/"Here Today". Butch & Sundance Part III. 2.7k

Fight or Give - Glory days are over. Nothing left but the ending – nothing left but the fall. Tag to "Internal Displacement", "Requiem", "Institutional Memory". Butch & Sundance Part IV. 2k.

The Goal for Which We Long - And then she notices the note left in the middle of her desk. Not a note, really, but one of the dignitary bingo cards she’d passed out – the one she’d given Josh by the looks of it – with the middle row filled in. She wonders why Josh would leave it there, before noticing the handwriting along the top. Tag to "The Wedding". 5k.

Other/Gen

The Day on Which They Shall Give Their Votes - Election Day, 1998. As the votes come in, the staff of Bartlet for America waits with one question in mind: Who will be the next President? Pre-Canon. Gen. 3.3k.

When it Rains, it Pours - Or, what happens in the motel after they get out of the rain? Well, wet clothing mostly. Josh/Donna. Tag to "20 Hours in America" Parts I and II. Written for the "Woulda Coulda Shoulda: a Fest to Get Josh and Donna Together" challenge. 2.6k.

Two for the Road - “It was a tough race.” “They’re all tough races.” Or, doing the same thing multiple time and expecting different results (1992-2018). CJ & Toby friendship fic. Gen. 5.3k.

[stormyoceans]

'Many people seem to think it foolish, even superstitious, to believe that the world could still change for the better. And it is true that in winter it is sometimes so bitingly cold that one is tempted to say, ‘What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.’ Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an end to the bitter frosts. One morning the wind turns, and there is a thaw. And so I must still have hope.' - Van Gogh

this quote sometimes helps me keep trudging on when i am facing hurdles. i love you so much. you are my biggest source of joy on tumblr so please never apologise for being human. it is only in your nature to feel.

thank you, dear anon 💜

i do find that quote very comforting: it’s a nice reminder that it may be stormy now, but it can’t rain forever. my brain isn’t really helping with summoning up the words to properly express how much i appreciate your message and how grateful i am that you even took the time to reach out to me, but please know that it warmed my heart and that it really means a lot. im still not at my best but i do feel a bit better today and im not gonna let my brain kick me down. i will be here being annoying as always as we get to enjoy last twilight together!!!!! thank you again, im sending you a big hug and im wishing you the best of days!!!!!!